


The City and the Stars

by cyberkogane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M, New York City, Pining Keith (Voltron), Theatre, a bit of angst, exploring new feelings, lance is an actor, lots of comfort and eventual fluff, so much fluff tbh, sorta slow burn, the city can get kinda lonely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 14:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberkogane/pseuds/cyberkogane
Summary: "For all intents and purposes, most of what Keith is tasked to do is pretty boring. He presses a button when the script orders him to, whether it be a roll of thunder or the sounds of hooves on pavement. Sometimes, during the fourth act, he has to act fast and make the sound of people rioting in the streets.That, for now, is the most exciting thing to happen.That is, when a certain boy isn't on the stage.Keith's eyes are drawn to him the way a moth goes to flame-"(Keith is comfortable working at a diner, paying what bills he needs to pay and moving on with his life after a pretty shitty childhood. When Shiro asks him to help with a show at the theatre, he agrees and figures it'll be boring and time consuming, a small break from an otherwise monotonous routine. What hedoesn'texpect is the boy in the lead role.)





	The City and the Stars

* * *

 

 

_"It was the strangled cold of November; / even the stars were strapped in the sky."_

_-Anne Sexton_

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

**_New York; a wintry November evening_ **

 

 

Keith doesn't really know why he's here. He could blame it on his best friend literally begging him or he could blame it on his own ridiculous curiosity or maybe he can admit that he was simply bored out of his mind-  
  
Either way, Keith stares at the stage with a mixture of emotions.  
  
The theatre is empty, an echoing void that for some reason makes him feel kinda lonely on an otherwise busy Tuesday evening. He plops down in a velvet, cherry seat and settles into the plush fabric, smelling both musk and permanent perfume.  
  
He sniffs and wipes at his nose, still defrosting from the early November air. Looking around, the walls are engraved with gold and red, intricate designs crawling from ceiling to polished floor. Running his hands on the cushion beside him, he listens for any indication that something will happen. He checks his phone, brows furrowed at the time. The guard at the doors took his name so it's not like he's in the wrong place, right? Shiro wouldn't fuck up the time to meet or something, would he?  
  
With a disgruntled sigh, Keith sinks lower in the seat and stares at the sea before him. He imagines the place filled, all five hundred something seats taken by men and women in fancy, expensive clothes. Although it's the twenty-first century, Keith can't help but imagine top hats and canes, huge jewels and billowing gowns. For all he knows, people could still dress up like that. Then again, he'll be the first to admit that he doesn't really know anything about the theatre at all. Other than his best friend's obsession with creating music, he's at a loss.  
  
Which is just another reason he's unsure about being here.  
  
Still, he sits. His legs stretch the most they can without ramming into the back of a chair and he groans, hearing something crack. His boots are scuffed and his hands are dry, two things that wouldn't normally bother him if he weren't somewhere so... _nice_. He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets and leans his head back, neck craning until he has a clear view of the ceiling. Other than the upper balconies there isn't much to look at. A chandelier hangs closer to the stage but it's dim with glittering crystal, probably hooked up to one of those knobs that can control it better than a simple switch.   
  
Time ticks by slowly but he can't hear the constant hum and rattle of New York at night, not like that of his own apartment, so he doesn't really mind. It's nice here, at least. Warm and clean, the room is cozy enough that if he really wanted to he could sleep.  
  
Instead, he is shocked awake by a loud bang. It echoes and he fears for a fleeting moment that someone had been shot. Isn't that something that happens in places like this? Tensions run high, people want the number one spot, violence ensues? Or, perhaps he'd been watching too many soap operas at three in the morning.  
  
Instead of blood soaking into the wooden stage boards, all that happens is the dropping of a prop. The wall falls and screams ignite, threatening to make Keith's eardrums bleed. He winces and watches people run around like ants, most obviously stage hands if their paint-coated, tired faces have anything to say about it.  
  
"What was that?!" A man shouts from somewhere in the fray, the question repeated with growing frustration.  
  
Keith smirks, amused by the ruckus. People run to the curtains but don't do much else while others simply look at each other, ignoring the disdainful gazes of individuals dressed in costumes. Others work to pick the wall up, their faces red with the struggle.  
  
"By God!" The man exclaims when he pushes through a final throng of people. His mustache twitches on his upper lip, fiery and styled in tilted swoops. "What is the meaning of this!"  
  
The stage hands try harder, none too eager to answer his question. Before he can blow a gasket, obvious by the way his breathing grows labored, a brown hand falls on his shoulder.  
  
"I got it, Coran."  
  
Keith sits a tad straighter at the newcomer, surprised to see a man in street clothes striding to help lift. Though, the street clothes definitely aren't modern. And he's most _definitely_ wearing makeup-  
  
The man nods at the girl to his right before heaving, struggling just as much but not letting it drop an inch closer to the ground. He wavers before eventually, _finally_ , Shiro shows up. He lifts the wooden wall with much less difficulty, voice quiet compared to the rest. The stranger looks thankful.  
  
"Goodness," Coran runs a hand down the length of his face, "if this were to happen opening night-"  
  
"It won't." Shiro dusts his hands on his pants before nodding to the wall, "It'll be bolted. Don't worry about it."  
  
Coran looks to the crew, sizing them up one after another. "Yes, well. See to it that it doesn't, please. The last thing we need is talk of laughter in the New York Times! Or, God forbid, one of our dear thespians  _crushed_ to death!"  
  
With that, he spins around and stalks away. His shoes clack and others follow at his back, like ducks to a mother. The boy who'd helped lift the wall follows soon after, his face set in one of determination. Keith blinks at the whirlwind, unsure if he should make his presence known at all. Those who remain on the stage look close to crying, or laughing, or maybe falling to the ground in a relieved heap; Keith isn't sure.  
  
Shiro, on the other hand, takes it upon himself to make the first move. He looks out into the empty theatre with determination, eyes passing each and every seat. Keith sinks even lower, until his face is practically swarmed by the leather of his jacket.  
  
Yet, no luck.  
  
"Keith!" He calls, voice much too loud.  
  
Cheeks flaming red, Keith winces at the group of eyes that turn on him.  
  
"Keith, c'mere!"  
  
With that, he knows his fate is sealed. He has to leave the shadows and face people that could probably pay for his rent several years over, the guess evident by the way he still has the smell of the diner on his clothes. Burgers and soups sell well in the winter but probably not to people like them.  
  
He gulps and hurries down the sloping aisle, ignoring the way the stage lights suddenly come up in a burst of bright color. It makes him feel on edge, like the seats are filled to the brim.  
  
"Glad you made it." Shiro grins when he takes the final step onto the stage.  
  
Keith grimaces, "You made it kinda hard to avoid coming."  
  
"You know I wouldn't usually ask this of you and it's not even because you owe me-"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. You desperately need the help, everything happened so fast, it's all last minute, I get it." At Shiro's worried frown, Keith shoves at his shoulder with a closed fist, "Chill out, old man. I'm glad you can trust me with this."  
  
Thanks washes over Shiro's face with no need for words. They'd been silently communicating for years until just the tilt of a brow or small, sly smile could portray an entire sentence.  
  
"So, I thought I'd go ahead and get you started tonight." Shiro turns and motions for him to follow, "But I don't think I'll tell Coran yet since he's already a bit stressed."  
  
"Stressed?" Keith scoffs, "You sure he isn't gonna burn the place down in a fit of rage or somethin'?"  
  
Shiro snorts, "He's over the top and a bit too controlling, but he's a good guy. You'll get used to it."  
  
The thought makes Keith tense because though he knows he'll probably be here until the final performance, he didn't really gauge just how long that would be. Considering the entire place is up in the air, he can only assume they've yet to even have a _first_ performance.   
  
"Why am I back here, anyway? I thought you said something about a booth."  
  
"I'll show you there in a minute, I just need to grab something." Shiro leads him through a thick red curtain, his steps careful in avoiding several strewn tools.  
  
Keith practically tip-toes, praying to whatever deity that's listening that he won't do something stupid and ruin something important. The last thing he needs is to go into debt because he's a clumsy jackass. Keith follows him into a small room, noticing almost immediately a pristine desk and the smell of something woodsy, similar to pine and cinnamon. That alone is so obviously Shiro it makes Keith smile.  
  
Papers, most likely all compositions for various plays, are stacked neatly on multiple shelves. Framed posters line the walls, each one vaguely familiar to Keith as something Shiro has worked on in the past: there's _Les Mis_ and _Phantom of the Opera_ , _A Streetcar Named Desire_ and and even a few classics like _Coriolanus_ and  _Oedipus_. Shiro's name is gilded into the posters along with several other composers, though the order varies.  
  
"Let me get you a copy of the show." Shiro mumbles, rifling through a stack on his desk, "It'll be easier for you to follow along if you see the signals in writing."  
  
"Uh, cool."  
  
Outside, people talk and footsteps rise and fall, tools whir and laughter erupts. It's chaotic, that much Keith can tell. After Shiro finds the show book, he leads Keith back outside, putting distance between them and the curtains and lights and noise. It's a relief to return to the ocean of seats but Keith doesn't say so, knowing Shiro can tell just by the way his shoulders fall away from his ears by an inch.  
  
"So, before each practice you can meet us at the stage for a debriefing." Shiro says the word as if they were going to line up and march into battle, "Then you're free to hang back here until either the director or his second gives you the go ahead to begin."  
  
They climb several more steps until Keith is in what many would consider the nose-bleed section, though he has to admit the view is pretty nice. He can see the entire layout of the theatre, from the chandelier to the pit where the orchestra and choir will remain while working. Shiro opens the door to the box and Keith shuts it behind himself, finding the blinking lights and whir of machine wholly unexpected.  
  
"You'll be working with Pidge, who controls the lights." Shiro nods toward the small person seated beside them, "She also fixes any tech that goes haywire and works with our light coordinator to keep all the systems updated, making sure to keep everything running super smooth."  
  
"No need to flatter me." Pidge grumbles, suddenly spinning in her seat.  
  
"Good to see you too." Shiro grins at her pursed lips, "This is Keith, my-"  
  
"Best friend, brother, little hooligan associate."  
  
Keith raises a brow, "What?"  
  
"Nothin." She holds out a small hand, expecting Keith to take it.  
  
When he does, she squeezes a bit too hard. "Hope you're better than the old sound guy. He was a fuckin' wreck."  
  
"Pidge."  
  
She ignores Shiro's tone, "Kinda great that he tripped down the stairs, if you ask me. Not that he deserved it or anything, just that it opened up a spot and now Coran will stop marching up here every ten minutes. Do you know how loud it can be in this tiny box when someone is screaming?"  
  
"Can't be as loud as the people down there." Keith says, "Sounded like a bunch of banshees."  
  
Pidge stares at him for a moment, glasses slipping on her nose. Then, she is laughing. She snorts and slaps a hand on the counter, hair flopping about her head in a messy brown cloud.  
  
"Banshees." She repeats like it's a revelation, "Never thought to call them that!"  
  
Shiro sighs and hands the show book to Keith, "Glad to see you two will get along."  
  
"Oh sure, sure." She snickers again, "We'll be grand."  
  
With a small look to Keith, one that waits for his confirmation that he can in fact handle this, Shiro nods. He rests a hand on Keith's shoulder before leaving, the door shutting with a soft click behind him.  
  
When they're left to the dark, Keith's sigh is extra loud. Pidge glances at him before nodding to the seat beside her, the chair the sort that rolls on the floor. He flops into it and places the book in front of him, watching as the orchestra trickles in, some unpacking their instruments while others swarm around Shiro.  
  
"Where ya' been before?"  
  
The question makes Keith pause in his observations. He glances at Pidge and notices the way her glasses fog with a sip of coffee from a lime green mug.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Y'know, before here. Where'd you work?"  
  
"Downtown?" He shrugs, "Altea Diner."  
  
She sets her mug down with a loud clunk, "What?"  
  
"A diner. You know, burgers and soup and milkshakes-"  
  
"Yeah, I know what a diner is." She snaps, "What I don't get is how you're sitting here with me right now."  
  
Once again, Keith is left confused.  
  
She must see it in his frown because she turns in her chair completely, until they're face to face. She studies his clothes and spots the scar on his cheek, eyes lingering before flitting to the small silver stud in his left ear.  
  
"Did he seriously drag you off the street or something?"  
  
Keith rears back, "The fuck are you talking about?"  
  
"There's no way Coran would let some rando step foot in here without experience." She explains, tone softening just a bit. She looks almost apologetic, "I mean, like, _anyone_. Not just you."  
  
"Shiro brought me in. Not Coran."  
  
"Obviously." She sighs and pushes a black headband further back on her forehead, keeping loose strands from falling across her face, "I just mean, this isn't some high school production. This is the Big Time. Like, fuck up and you could lose your job and your reputation and your hopes and dreams for a bright, successful future kinda Big Time."  
  
Keith rolls his eyes, "Sure. Okay."  
  
"No, i'm serious. Don't you know where you are?"  
  
When Keith doesn't reply, she leans closer as if it were some big secret. She whispers like it's the answer to the meaning of life, like he's about to be granted safe passage to the heavens.  
  
"Dude, you're on _Broadway_."

 

 

 

**_*~*~*~*_ **

 

 

For all intents and purposes, most of what Keith is tasked to do is pretty boring. He presses a button when the script orders him to, whether it be a roll of thunder or the sounds of hooves on pavement. Sometimes, during the second act, he has to act fast and make the sound of people rioting in the streets.  
  
That, for now, is the most exciting thing to happen.  
  
That is, when the boy from before isn't on the stage.  
  
Keith's eyes are drawn to him the way a moth goes to flame, unaware that he's smacking against the bulb until Pidge is pinching his hand to prepare for his cue. He startles and once or twice presses the button way too early, cutting the boy off or making him jump from the wrong noise.  
  
But Keith can't help it, really. It's not that the guy is pretty or handsome, which is he is, no doubt about that. And it's not that he's bad, which there's no way he could be if he's here, right?  
  
It's just that, though Keith isn't really interested in the story unfolding with each scene, the boy _makes_ him pay attention. He waltzes in and literally steals the show, his ratty clothes in no way hiding the fact that his body moves with purposeful, perfected control. His voice is full of strength and his face shifts easily with each emotion, believable and intense.  
  
"He's good, huh?" Pidge whispers, even though the box is soundproof and there's no way anyone from outside could hear anything from within.  
  
"Yeah." Keith clears his throat, "Pretty good."  
  
"I'm surprised he got the part at all, honestly."  
  
Keith looks to her, the song that plays from below dramatic and slow. Faux snow falls and coats the stage, the likes of which will be swept up with the backdrop of St. Petersburg in the early 20th century.   
  
She continues, "When he auditioned, I heard he bombed. Fucked up, like, royally."  
  
"Then how's he here?"  
  
She shrugs, "Dunno. But Coran seems pleased enough."  
  
Keith hums and looks back to the stage, watching as the boy offers his hand to a girl laying on the floor. She'd fallen, purposefully of course, during the rush of a twirling musical crowd. Her wig is loose but none of them care to fix it, most likely because this is a partial practice, not meant to be set in complete costume.  
  
"Up, up!" Coran shouts, urging her to stand a few seconds quicker.  
  
Keith watches as she moves with grace, her baggy dress and long trench coat trailing on the snow covered stage. When she gets to full height, she takes her hand back, eyes focused on the boy with rapt attention.  
  
"Who's she?" Keith asks.  
  
Pidge looks up from her show book, eyes falling on the girl. "Allura. Actress extraordinaire, went to Juliard-"  
  
"And him?" Keith hopes he made the question sound less intrigued.   
  
If Pidge suspects anything, she doesn't say so. Instead, she shrugs. "Lance something. New to the stage."  
  
"Oh."  
  
The scene changes fast and Keith hurriedly clicks the button for a windy, wintry night. The lights dim and come back in that of a silvery moon, the image cast on a dark wall, glittering stars twinkling bright. The girl, Allura, walks with slow steps, gaze cast to the future crowd.  
  
Her voice is haunting, full of longing and confusion and heartache. Violins play with slow motion, the cello and bass practically rattling the floor, Shiro's arms swaying with his conduction. From this height, Keith can sweep his eyes along the stage and catch sight of the faces peering from the sides. They're hidden to the rest of the empty seats but from here, it is easy to set them apart.  
  
When he doesn't spot Lance, he drops his chin to his hand. They've run through this song for what feels like ten thousand years already but Coran doesn't seem happy with it, no matter how great it sounds to Keith.  
  
"Again!" Coran shouts from the middle row, "Enter Left, third set!"  
  
People surge back onto the stage and Shiro is quick to change the song, not faltering for even a moment. Keith smirks at him, something like pride blooming in his chest. It's almost as if he wants to proclaim like some kind of proud parent in a sitcom, _that's my best friend!_  
  
Instead, he presses the button for the clatter of city life, listening to it echo before Allura lets herself get lost in the crowd. Keith times the minutes from her fall to Lance's entrance, struck by the way he seems breathless even if he didn't actually run from one end of a street to another. His chest rises and falls, face somehow flushed, eyes bright against the fake afternoon lights.  
  
"Up!" Coran orders but Lance doesn't let a trace of annoyance show on his face, even when Keith feels like screaming. "If you mess this up again we'll be working to sunrise, people!"  
  
"Don't they get angry?" Keith asks, "I mean, what did they even do wrong? Everything seems perfect to me."  
  
"Well you aren't Coran. He's the leading director four years in a row, literally every playwright tries to get his attention and if you land a spot in his show, consider yourself given a gift by Dionysus himself." She shoves a chip into her mouth, "Trust me, there's a method to his madness."  
  
"Or maybe it's just, I dunno, _madness_."  
  
Pidge snorts and turns the page of her show book, "Yeah, you're probably right."  
  
Just when Keith thinks this practice really will never end, Coran calls time and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. It's collective and even Keith follows suit, glad to close the damn book before standing to stretch his legs. He moves to the door, intent to get away as fast as he can.  
  
"Yo, wait!" Pidge scoots her chair back, the wheels rolling with a squeak, "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
Keith raises a brow and throws a thumb over his shoulder, "Outside?"  
  
"Nope." At his confusion, her lips tilt into a wicked grin. "Not yet. We gotta go to the stage."  
  
A strong burst of panic hits Keith's stomach, "Uh, why exactly?"  
  
She shrugs, "We just do."  
  
Keith withholds a groan and waits for Pidge to head down the stairs first, wondering if he could simply slip away while everyone else converges around the director. But then Shiro meets his eye and Keith knows that it'd be stupid, and very pointless. He sits a few rows back from the thick of the group and crosses his arms, leather creaking at his elbows.  
  
"This could have gone much better!" Coran says, accent pitched in a way that sets Keith's teeth to a grind, "But I suppose it could have gone much, _much_ worse. Tomorrow morning we will begin, once again, in Act One, Scene Two. No need for lights and sound, it'll be a dry run. We'll meet again tomorrow evening and apply full costume, same as tonight. Get rest, now." He looks around before making a shoo motion with his hand, "Go on, then. Get out of here."  
  
People disperse fast, many passing Keith without a second look. He waits, eyes traveling before he knows exactly what he's looking for. Or, rather, _who_. Though instead of seeing Lance again, his view is quickly blocked.  
  
"You did pretty good." Shiro smiles, "I guess Pidge was right about it being kinda lucky that the other guy tripped."  
  
Keith can tell that Shiro doesn't like admitting it, the man not really having a mean bone in his body. But what's true is true, apparently.  
  
"It was boring."  
  
Shiro laughs and it echoes, drawing attention just like it always does, "Knew you'd love it, buddy!" He jokes.  
  
"Whatever. I gotta get to work." Keith sighs, trying to wipe his bemused smirk from his lips, "You know, _real_ work."  
  
Really Keith wants nothing more than to go home. He wants to eat leftover fries and snuggle with his dog and sleep until the new year.  
  
"Right." Shiro nods, "Well, don't think you won't be getting paid, okay? The money will go through every other week. It isn't too much but it'll be worth it."  
  
"I'm sure." Keith meets Shiro's risen fist with one of his own, the gesture taking place without either of them really thinking about it.  
  
When Shiro says his goodbyes and heads back to the orchestra, the likes of which take longer to leave considering they have to pack their instruments, Keith finally escapes. He practically jogs up the sloping steps before taking the top stairs to the entrance, nodding at the guard when he passes. And then he is outside, the cold air returning with a vengeance.  
  
He sniffs and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking both ways before jaywalking to the other side of the street. No use getting a cab when the diner is so close but God, Keith wishes he'd brought a scarf. If the wind was frigid at five p.m, it's most definitely slicing at nine. His eyes water but he doesn't bother wiping at them. Lights shine and twinkle, many decorations already lit in greens and reds, spruce trees set up in shop windows; wreaths settled snug on doors. He passes a Santa with apple red cheeks, his animatronic wave never sitting well with Keith. He avoids looking at it and continues on, brushing past early holiday shoppers with ease. Many are tourists, looking lost and dazed by the towering skyscrapers.  
  
"'Scuse me." He mumbles, quick to reach the entrance to the diner.  
  
The door jingles and he welcomes the burst of warmth, smells wafting into his nose seconds after. Coffee is served in a constant flow, some paired with breakfast dishes while others delve into burgers and creamy soups. Keith eyes a warm cup of black coffee, wanting to rip it from the old guy's hand so he can chug it himself.  
  
Instead, he walks behind the counter and through the back doors, heading toward his small locker. His boss waves at him but otherwise says nothing, probably relieved that Keith is here at all. It wouldn't be the first time he called out because of the cold weather, feigning the flu. Keith quickly changes his shirt to one with the diner's logo and ties an apron around his waist, pockets deep for tips and straws. Then, he gets to work.  
  
The later it gets, the less of a crowd there is. Being open twenty-four seven means he's usually working 'till sunrise but it's not as bad as the day shift. Other than the stumbling drunks and college students clacking away in the corners, time passes with subtle peace.  
  
He leans against the counter after serving a woman with a ridiculous amount of fake fur on her coat, the material looking pretty damn itchy. Still, he offers her a small smile and gratefully takes the three dollar tip, glad to push it into his pocket with the others. As time wears on, there's not much else to do. A TV on the wall plays reruns of some shitty soap opera, the episode old and boring. Keith stares at it for a long while, already used to the woman slapping some guy with fake, blinding white teeth.  
  
Outside, cars pass and people huddle against the cold, most walking arm in arm. He checks the time and rolls his eyes at what must be party-goers, clubbers and ravers. But between the fray, he spots a lone form sitting against their window.  
  
With a glance behind him, Keith checks to make sure his boss isn't watching. The last thing he needs is for the guy to run some stupid drama back to Sal, the owner of the joint. Keith takes his time making a fresh cup of coffee and places a few bucks into the cash register before snatching the forgotten sandwich on the bar, knowing the original customer is unlikely to return for it.  
  
Then he's skirting around a few tables and through the front door, quick to squat out of his boss's view.  
  
"Here." Keith says, passing the condiments forward.  
  
The man looks up from his book, fingers bundled by torn, layered gloves. He smells but Keith doesn't make a face like so many others, knowing more than anyone what it's like to have to survive. When you don't know what the next day will bring, getting clean isn't your biggest concern.  
  
"Thanks." Lyle says, voice gravelly with age. "How ya' been, kid?"  
  
Keith shrugs and watches as the older man takes a big gulp of the coffee, probably burning his tongue but too cold to care.  
  
"Been good, mostly. You?"  
  
Lyle grins, several teeth missing. "Everythins' shining bright!"  
  
He says this each time Keith asks, bushy brows always risen toward his receding gray hairline.  
  
_The sun'll shine tomorrow._ Lyle told him once, when Keith was settled beneath his blankets to keep him company, _It always does._  
  
"You wanna come back to my place for a while, catch up on sleep?" Keith offers, watching Lyle's face light up at the sight of fresh veggies and soft bread and lots of meat.  
  
"Nah, kid. I'm good." He bites and chews, swallowing fast. "Don't worry about ole' Lyle. I got all the company I need." He holds up his book, the pages worn.  
  
Keith debates asking again, knowing if he pushes just enough the man might relent. But then he's pulling his blankets higher on his shoulders and seems to root himself to the spot, refusal to move clear by the way he leans his head against the wall.  
  
"Alright, well." Keith clears his throat and stands, fingers tingling from the cold. "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."  
  
Lyle just smiles, a bit crazed but wholly kind.  
  
For the rest of the night, Keith keeps an eye on the guy. He makes sure the rowdy college kids leave him alone and nobody tries to snatch his blankets or do something cruel, like spill old beer on his head. It's been done before and if Keith isn't there to help, it'll happen again. Lyle is tough, like everyone else on the streets. But he's also gentle, more of an lover than a fighter.  
  
So, Keith takes it upon himself to fight for him.  
  
After all, it's the least he can do.

 

 

 

**_*~*~*~*_ **

 

 

Going to bed when the sun rises isn't as depressing as it used to be. When he first got his apartment, he'd wake up early and soak it in, unused to having a stable home. But with the help of Shiro and that of a trust fund set up by his father before he died, turning eighteen was a blessing. It meant no more orphanages, no more care homes or foster parents or fighting for space on cots.  
  
It meant he had a bed and though he didn't have much else for quite a while, it was enough.  
  
Working at the diner made him change his schedule and now he falls into his sheets just as the morning birds sing, though he guesses most of them have already flown south for the winter.  
  
Kosmo, his dog, bounds down the hallway and jumps up beside him. His nose is cold and wet on Keith's face and his breath kinda stinks, but Keith welcomes the warmth of his fur.  
  
"Hey, buddy." He groans and rolls to his side, "I'll take you out in a few hours, okay?"  
  
The dog gives no hint that he's understood but he soon settles anyway, curling up in the crescent opening of Keith's legs. His tail wags for a while and the sound of it on the sheets lulls Keith to relaxation; to blissful, welcomed sleep.

 

 

 

**_*~*~*~*_ **

 

 

"This sucks."  
  
Keith can practically hear Pidge's eyes roll from beside him. She'd been going back and forth between reading some textbook full of computer demographics and the actual play, which Keith finally managed to take notice of.  
  
_Anastasia._  
  
"Better than being down there." Pidge lifts her head toward the stage without taking her eyes from the book, "At least in here, it's a bit more quiet. When, you know, you aren't talking."  
  
Keith sulks and sinks in his seat, taking a moment to crack his knuckles and stretch his legs. The stage is void of actors while snow is being swept clean, the likes of which fell several scenes too early.  
  
"Why are you even here?" Keith asks, not too sure why he's talking so much. It's not like he's usually so vocal, especially with people he's just met. "You don't seem very interested either."  
  
"I'm not." Pidge shrugs, "But the pay's decent and my brother got me a gig two years ago and it turns out I'm really good at what I do, so here I am. Trying to pay for college and maybe get to like, mars."  
  
"Oh."  
  
When Keith doesn't say anything else, she sighs and closes her textbook. "How's the diner treating you?"  
  
Keith grunts, "Fine."  
  
"But this is better, right?"  
  
"I mean, I guess?"  
  
"So, it's better." She smirks and pushes a bag of chips toward him, _"So,_ why are you complaining?"  
  
Shoving a handful of Cheetos into his mouth, Keith looks back toward the stage. Coran stands in an aisle with a tapping foot, impatient but trying to keep his cool. In front of him, in the pit meant to hide the orchestra, Shiro leans on a stand and talks to some girl, nodding when she points at a piece of sheet music.  
  
"Not sure." Keith eventually replies, "I guess I'm just not used to it yet..plays and musicals and stuff have never really interested me."  
  
Pidge hums, "Me either." She chews loudly before continuing, "But it grows on you after a while. Sometimes, when I'm not hired for a production, I even kinda miss it."

 

 

  
**_*~*~*~*_ **

 

 

The next morning, Keith wakes several hours earlier than usual. The sun is still high in the sky and though his eyes sting from the five hours of sleep he managed to catch, he's glad he convinced himself to set an alarm. Kosmo huffs at his face and Keith laughs before pushing him away, knowing his dog needs a good, long run. In the city, unless you want to trek all the way to Central Park, the best bet for exercise with a dog as big as him is braving the crowds. Keith's braved worse.  
  
He pulls on tight fitted leggings and an over sized hoodie, making sure to place his gloves over his knuckles in hopes of keeping them warm.  
  
"You ready?" He asks Kosmo before lacing his shoes and picking up his headphones, quick to chug a full glass of water.  
  
His dog waits by the door and gives Keith no trouble when he puts on the leash, a sturdy thing with little skulls and crossbones spread out as a design. He locks his apartment door behind him and ignores the kids at the other end of the hall, the pair usually playing by themselves all hours of the day. Not for the first time, Keith wonders where their parents are. He worries and tries to push those worries down the further he gets from the complex, knowing it's usually best to mind his own business.  
  
Still, as he begins to jog along the busy city street, he scowls at the thought of them playing all alone. It doesn't sit well with him and he decides that if they're still there when he gets back, he'll knock until someone finally fucking answers.  
  
Kosmo trots beside him, accustomed to the noises and sounds of New York. Keith takes roads that tourists usually wouldn't bother walking along, even if they do seem to smell a bit stronger. That's one thing he wishes he could change about this place. Those smells. Potholes make rancid puddles splash, people mingle in closed spaces and dumpsters overflow long before the trucks come by to empty them.  
  
He wrinkles his nose and turns toward the direction of Central Park, knowing he won't continue on far enough to reach it. But he can see others headed that way, most on bikes with little baskets latched onto the bars. Even in weather like this, he supposes it's nice to see some trees. Huffing, he waits at a crosswalk and watches the countdown. His chest rises and falls and his eyes are stinging again from the cold wind. It whips between the buildings, howling beneath the buzz of voices and sirens and honks.  
  
Keith clicks his tongue against his teeth and Kosmo keeps pace beside him as they cross the road, weaving in and out of people going about their business. He glances toward the sky and notices snow clouds forming in dark grey, promising sleet. It's all the initiative he needs to turn back the way he came, speeding his steps until even Kosmo seems winded.  
  
When he gets back to his apartment, the kids are gone.

 

 

 

**_*~*~*~*_ **

 

 

"I'll be cutting rehearsal a bit short, friends." Coran announces that night, his orange hair flecked with snow from a rather hurried entrance into the theatre, "Seems I have a personal matter to attend to. However, let's not allow that to keep us from practicing 'till the very last minute, yes?"  
  
Keith grimaces, wishing the guy would just cancel. He crosses his arms and looks for Shiro, wondering if maybe, perhaps, he could _possibly_ find someone else to take over just for tonight.  
  
Instead, his eyes meet that of pretty blue.  
  
The girl smiles at him and he recognizes her as the lead for the show, voice always strong and echoing even when there's no mic on her person. Without her wig her hair is an odd sort of silver, as if she hadn't dyed it and it had instead been dipped in the stars. Poetic thoughts aside, although Keith isn't attracted to her in any way, even he can admit that she's beautiful. He offers a small smile back but it's tilted, unsure and uncomfortable with the attention.  
  
Just as quick as she'd looked at him, she looks away again. He lets out a sharp breath and takes the steps two at a time, until he's managed to beat Pidge to the box. Practically throwing himself into the chair, he refuses to look anywhere else but the sound board.  
  
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Pidge asks, sliding her huge jacket off of her shoulders.  
  
Tonight her shirt displays some sort of movie, one with flying cars and people with glowing red eyes.  
  
"Nothin'." He lies.  
  
She tsks, "Sure. Whatever you say."  
  
Fighting against the urge to lay his head on his folded arms, Keith flicks open his show book. The words are a jumble, directions italicized while others are bracketed, emotions ordered with exclamations and question marks and some kind of strange little wiggly line.  
  
"Looks like you caught someone's attention."   
  
Pidge's snicker makes him lift his head immediately, brows furrowing with distaste. "Huh?"  
  
She nods toward the stage.  
  
When he looks, he feels like slipping from his chair and finding shelter beneath the counter. He can make a home in the wires, curl up with the dust bunnies and abandoned crumpled papers.  
  
Allura is talking to Lance, who looks as confused as Keith feels. When she points upward, he's eternally grateful that the windows are tinted to an almost pitch black. No way can they see in here, he assures himself.  
  
"You say something to her?"  
  
Keith scowls, "No way. We made eye contact like, one time."  
  
He watches Allura lay a hand on Lance's arm, the latter finally dragging his eyes away. He smiles and says something but Keith can't even hope to read the words on his lips.  
  
"If you got her attention, she'll have you wrapped around her finger in no time." Pidge sighs, "Not that it's a bad thing. She's actually super nice even if the rumors say otherwise. Everyone's just jealous she got a leading role again-"  
  
"I don't think I need to worry about it." Keith admits, cheeks heating.  
  
Pidge is smart. He can tell by the way she studies people, the way she fiddles with switches on huge blinking machines, how she highlights key terms in her textbooks before pulling out an even bigger book that must be filled with the answers she needs. He can tell by the way she slides her eyes to him now, something a bit mischievous and fully sharp in her brown eyes.  
  
"Oh." She breathes, leaning back in her seat. "Welp. There's that."  
  
Her words make Keith calmer, his hand falling away from the nape of his neck where he'd subconsciously placed it to rub against an old scar. It's not like he'd care if she was some closet homophobe considering it wouldn't be the first time he's encountered such shitty people. But the way she slides the chips back to him, leaving the entire conversation alone and in no way blown out of proportion grants him relief.   
  
"Thanks." He says, meaning it in multiple ways.  
  
She just grunts and brings the lights up for the third act, until all they can see is the opening of a scarlet curtain.

 

 

 

_***~*~*~*** _

 

 

When Keith gets to work, he notices that Lyle isn't huddled outside. People litter the diner and conversations are a bit too loud for his taste but that usually means more tips, so he won't be grumpy about it. Instead, he glances every so often toward the door, wondering if his boss managed to scare him off before Keith could get here.  
  
"Two burgers and fries." The customer in front of him asks, the man burly and overly gruff.  
  
His beard looks like it could use a good scrub and he avoids Keith's eyes, two things that put him on edge. But he nods anyway, quick to place the order ticket on the rack behind him. The chef calls it out and everything goes in motion, like a well oiled machine.  
  
The clock ticks on until ten turns to twelve, a full six hours away from freedom. Keith settles into a stool behind the counter and pulls out his sketch book, hoping the usual drunken crowd will forgo his quiet haven for tonight. With no distractions other than a new brew of coffee pouring behind him, he sharpens his pencil and goes about the structure of a face. He wouldn't say he's good but he likes to think he's not terrible, either. He can shade and he can usually ace proportions, his shitty two years at the midtown art school seeming to not have been too much of a waste after all.  
  
He sketches waves of hair, not realizing who he's drawing until he outlines the pendant that had hung around her neck. Allura is in the profile, her nose button-like and round. He smirks and turns to a blank page, knowing exactly who he wants to draw next. It'll be from a shakier memory but he thinks he's stared at Lance long enough to give it a pretty decent try.  
  
The bell dings and Keith frowns, calling out a quick, "Be with you in a sec!"  
  
Whoever it is sighs but it's not the type of sigh that makes Keith immediately defensive. It's just tired. He closes his sketchbook and groans when he stands, feet aching from the late evening rush.  
  
When he gets to the counter, his throat dries like the Sahara. He coughs and urges himself not to choke on air.  
  
Lance is looking down at his phone, the blue glow highlighting the sharp plains of his brown face. This close, Keith notices a light splattering of freckles, the kind that probably grow darker after hours in the sun.  
  
"Uh, hi."  
  
At the sound of Keith's voice, Lance looks up fast. He blinks and smiles, the action practiced.  
  
"Hey, sorry." He glances at the menu behind Keith's head, blue eyes roaming. "Can I get a large chocolate shake please?"  
  
At this, Keith raises a brow, "Huh?"  
  
_Smooth_.  
  
Lance shoves his phone into his jacket pocket and shrugs, "Chocolate shake."  
  
"But it's cold."  
  
"Okay?" He drawls, probably not expecting the conversation to last more than a few seconds. "I still want one."  
  
Keith mentally slaps himself, knowing he must sound like an asshole. "Right. Okay. For here or to go?"  
  
Looking around, Lance eyes all the empty seats. "Here, I guess."  
  
Motioning for him to find a table, Keith turns fast. His cheeks are burning and he prays he doesn't look like a ripe tomato but he's almost certain that he does. The milkshake machine is a piece of junk and he slaps the side twice before it whirs to life, loud in the otherwise quiet diner. He gets a cup and fills it until it's almost overflowing, the glass shaped like something straight from the 1950s.  
  
He puts the standard whip cream and cherry on top before wiping the sides with a napkin, making sure any drops don't reach the floor. Then, when he knows he can't drag it out any longer, he makes his way to a booth by the window.  
  
Lance sits with his chin in his palm, the dark green of his jacket still zipped up along his chest. He's looking toward the street, lost in thoughts Keith can't even begin to hope to hear. He simply slides the drink to him and reaches into his apron pocket for a straw.  
  
"Wait, can I have the other kind?" Lance suddenly asks, "The like, swirly kind?"  
  
Keith hesitates, "Sure?"  
  
He makes it quick, grabbing a random blue straw before handing it over, watching as Lance slips it into his milkshake with a large amount of glee. The straw bends at odd angles and it's usually given to kids, those that want to watch their drinks travel all the way to their mouths.  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
Lance shakes his head, "Nah, i'm good. Thanks." But before Keith can walk away, he asks, "By the way, have we met before?"  
  
Now, Keith is one hundred and ten percent he's more red than a damn tomato. It makes literally zero sense for his cheeks to be alight and his stomach fluttery, especially considering he's had next to no interest in anyone for at least three years. Why all of a sudden? Why with some hotshot actor, who no doubt wouldn't look at Keith twice if he weren't drinking a smoothie at his diner?  
  
Keith thinks about telling him: _No, but I see you every night between 5pm and 9. I watch you turn into another person and it blows me away, how fantastic you are._  
  
Instead, he shrugs. "Nope."  
  
"Oh." Lance sounds surprised, like he expected a different answer. "Okay, then. Sorry."  
  
When Keith gets back to the counter, he tries his best to focus on his drawing and not his muse sitting just two tables away. In the end, he doesn't even finish the sketch and by the time Lance pays for his shake and leaves, a small smile thrown his way, Keith knows he was caught. For whatever reason, the realization doesn't bother him as much as it should.  
  
Instead, those little flutters in his stomach take full, wondrous flight.  
  
And all he can thinks is: _Well, shit._

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I know everyone's excited for fall but i'm always in a winter mood, so here's this lol. It's gonna be kinda long and one of many stories I'm currently working on so updates will vary. I hope you enjoyed this first chapter and that you stick around for the rest <3 Comments are very appreciated.
> 
> Come say hey on tumblr @ [starshinebf](https://starshinebf.tumblr.com/)


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